A/N: Cam/Derek. Ayuh…I have no idea how I'm going to pull this one through, but I can tell you that it'll be one helluva ride. They're just so….different…and hate each other's guts/synthetic blood. I just had to write something about it. So, here's my supermondofabulous (hopefully) fanfic. Oh, yeah, I haven't seen the whole entire movie/show franchise, so if I get some technicality wrong, just let me know ; LOTS of swearing, btw…(mostly Derek, lol) If anyone thinks I'm going overboard with a 'T' rating, please tell me.
Disclaimer: I do not own Terminator or anything affiliated with it.
"Christ!" Derek swore between clenched teeth, his hands white-knuckling the edge of the kitchen island he was laying face up on, not quite unlike the position he was in when he was first at the Connor household.
"Move one more time and I'll have to rip these stitches right out," Sarah threatened, midway through her fifth stitch, sure to be not a seventh of the way along the journey that guaranteed dozens more. So far they were all crooked, thus not much hope lay on the horizon. Derek groaned. "Take off your belt," she instructed her son, John, who stood on the other side of the room, rifling through the drawers.
"Your belt," she repeated in a more stern fashion. John found a leather work glove in the junk he was going through and tossed it instead of his belt to Sarah, "Yup," he heard her mutter under her breath, "Exactly what I asked for…" She stuffed the glove in Derek's mouth and told him to stop being a girl. This, naturally, brought up a much unneeded pique from Cameron.
"That's physically impossible," she said in her standard flat tone, "Derek has a pen—"
"Cam!" All three of them yelled.
"—not a vag—" She suddenly stopped, something having caught her attention, "At the rate you are applying the sutures, Derek Reese will slip into a coma not twenty-four hours after the procedure is finished. He is loosing too much blood."
"Do you wanna give me some, tin bitch?" he spat, his voice muffled.
"Lay down and shut up," Sarah commanded, pushing him back down on the table, "You're the one who just had to get attacked…."
"How could I be mistaked for a bum?"
"How could you not?" John commented dryly from his corner. Derek grumbled some more and the white of his eyes started to show, before the irises unconsciously flicked back.
Not two hours ago, Derek had come home with a horrendous slash through his green jacket, t-shirt, and an inch and a half of skin. He stumbled through the door, his bloody hands trying to cover the mess his side was in, the crimson liquid seeping around his fingers and dripping on the carpet. The blood hadn't congealed, not a good sign at all, and Sarah ripped off his jacket and shirt to give sight to the nasty gash. A hefty foot long, the laceration ran from just under his armpit to his last two or three ribs on the right side.
John was told to find a sewing needle from the drawer (which he was still trying to do…he did find one, which Sarah was using now, but she found it unsatisfactory and instructed him to get a better one) and Cameron stood in an annoying hover-like way, constantly looking over Sarah's shoulder to give criticism and constant annoyance. Cam may have been a Terminator, but she knew damn straight that Derek didn't want her anywhere near him; just her being in the same room with Derek while he was injured was a shock and a half.
"They do not need to be straight," Cameron said to Sarah, who was fumbling with the cheap needle, making a disaster of things. It wasn't until she heard about how severe Derek's condition was did she start slipping up, "As long as the sutures hold him together."
Sarah went at it completely haphazard, causing Derek to fidget underneath her restraining hands. It wasn't so much the pain as it was the infection that was already settling in his system. A drunk had (as Derek had put it himself) 'shanked' him on his way out of the liquor store, beer in hand. The knife, or whatever it was, couldn't be doctorate clean. Impossible, even.
Interrupting the whole affair, John stepped in, "Mom, move. I'll do it."
With blood staining her hands and shirt, and jeans, Sarah backed off reluctantly, knowing her son would be able to carry the job through correctly. The savior of the human race furrowed his brow, re-threaded the needle and went to work.
Glittering through the window, moonlight rested on Derek Reese's cold, sweaty brow. He flailed about the sheets, his legs tangling in the thin cotton fabric, threatening to tear, "Get it away!" he slurred, his words brushing up against each other, fogged by sleep and blood loss, "It's metal! Get it away!" his voice was hoarse from the yelling and the muscles tensed in his neck
The Terminator moved forward carefully in soft measured steps so as not to send him into cardiac arrest, "Derek…" Cameron whispered.
His eyes instantly snapped open at the voice, jerking away from her to arm of the couch behind him, "Fuck," he cussed under his breath, feeling two of the stitches administered earlier that evening pop open, "Don't do that shit like that!"
"You were yelling in your sleep."
"Jesus," his hand gravitated towards his ribs, the source of sudden pain, "Curiosity kill the cat?"
Cameron tilted her head, his comment not making the least bit of sense.
"Nevermind. Get out."
"Your wound partially reopened."
"I'll fix it later," Derek leaned sideways and reached underneath the cushions to pull out a clip of bullets, "Beat it before I kill your ass…" he retrieved the rifle from between the couch and mini table, loading it with a quick and practiced motion.
"The stitches need to be repaired."
"Git…" he warned one last time, wincing as he pushed himself up on is feet, grasping the edge of the coffee table for balance. His breathing was labored and heavy, a grimace decorated his face.
"Fire that gun and you will wake John and Sarah," Cameron warned, not moving a step in any direction.
Derek looked at her, right straight through her big brown eyes. He knew exactly what hid behind such deceptive beauty, and it scared the piss out of him, "Keep your mouth shut, hubcap, I ain't shooting nothing."
"Then put the gun down," she ordered, switching the tables around. When he didn't comply, she insisted, "Now."
Irritated, Derek tossed the rifle on the couch, not about to get into a spat with a robot in the middle of the night. He had about an inch more of pride than that, "Bitch," he growled, hobbling off to the kitchen where the medical supplies from just a few hours ago was left. Even though Derek heard her following, he didn't stop to face her, but instead just said, "Where the hell are you going?"
Cameron responded simply, "You're going to need assistance."
"To stitch myself up?"
"Yes. John could barely do it without being physically impaired."
"Speaking of him," Derek paused to stare her down, "Aren't you supposed to be protecting him or some shit like that?"
"As a habit, I check on him every ten minutes," when she saw that her just gave her a blank look, she continued, "I have another six minutes and forty-two seconds until I have to do so."
"I don't need your help," he persisted, leaning against the counter and threading the needle.
Sighing (she was getting pretty good at it), Cameron said, "You've already gotten yourself into two different predicaments...already."
"The first is you haven't disinfected the needle..." she paused, the left corner of her lips turning up slightly, "I think you can figure out the second for yourself," at this, she turned on an Adidas socked foot and made her way back down the hall to see if both John and Sarah were safe, yet also waiting for him to call her back.
She knew he would.
Cameron wasn't stupid.
Damn, that thing is smart...Derek thought icily to himself, dousing the needle in half a bottle of isopropyl alcohol. He now faced a conundrum: he couldn't get his shirt off. Yes, it was that simple. The couple of stitches that had ripped out were at the top of his wound, so it wasn't like her could just pull the shirt up and inch or two, he had to pull the whole damn thing off, for Chrissakes. He figured he'd go at it with some scissors, but there weren't any to be found. Sure, a pair of nail clippers and pliers could do the trick but that'd take three years off his life. There was the option of pulling a Hulk Hogan and ripping the thing off, but the robot had a keen sense of hearing and would know it won. Wonderful.
"Hey!" he called out, "You still there?"
It took a while for the response, but it eventually came, "Who's 'you'?" Cameron responded smartly.
"Yes, I am."
"Can you...um, can you—"
"Derek Reese, do you have the balls to say my name?" Interesting. She'd picked up a new word.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" He asked coldly.
"You know exactly what it means."
"Can you come here, please, Cameron," he put emphasis on her name and added a 'please' for Brownie points.
She appeared around the corner, a satisfied expression her face. At first glance, she looked like any other smug, teenage girl with her boxerpants rolled down in that rebellious way to show an inch of skin before the hem of her wife-beater style tanktop started. At second glance, however, her shoulders weren't quite as relaxed as they should be and her jaw was always squared like and Army sergeant's. Hell, there was no denying that she was smokin' hot, though, "What exactly do you need?" she asked.
"This," she stated, walking over to him, her eyes locked with his, "is why I put your nose to the grindstone," Cameron was now right in front of Derek, her hands on his hips and her fingers playing with the edge of his t-shirt, "You're an asshole," Any rational thought what-so-ever flew right out of his head as the feelings of elbowing her in the face for touching him and the wonder of how, just how Cam's fingers could be so warm against his skin warred within him. It wasn't fair. "Not a stupid asshole." At this, she pulled his shirt over his head (rather violently and unforgiving) and let it drop to the floor, "You can pick that up."
She was gone before he knew his thought process returned back to normal.
Normal-ish because Derek just let a Terminator touch him.
And he wanted her to do it again.
A/N: So...a) is it worth internet space to continue or b) should I stop wasting your time? Hmm...Yeah, it was quick, but whatever.